


Near at Hand

by bethagain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: / or & you choose the goggles, Casual Touch, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Humor, M/M, Occasional angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethagain/pseuds/bethagain
Summary: A lot of Good Omens fic assumes Crowley and Aziraphale never touch--that is, until the End of the World wraps up without the world  ending, at which pointhide the children and everybody else get out of the way.But, look, they've been hanging out together for 6,000 years. You gotta get some kind of comfortable after all that time.What if casual touch is just a normal part of their friendship?Presenting a series of ficlets in which your author finds at least a half-dozen excuses to write about it.





	1. Mustache, Hair Products, Boots

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon that Aziraphale and Crowley are both touch-starved creates room for lots stories about hesitant, first-time touches and all the feelings that might go with that. 
> 
> So as usual, I gotta be ornery and write things another way. 
> 
> What if they touch each other _all the time?_ What if they just sort of naturally end up fixing each other's hair, straightening collars, holding each other up as they leave the bar. 
> 
> This started out as a loose series of ficlets on Tumblr, now moving over here so they're all in one place. Some fluff, a little angst, 6,000 years of friendship. And, as always, if you want to wear your slash goggles I won't stop you.
> 
> Will get them all posted over the next few days--and it's entirely possible there will be more as new ideas occur. Prompts welcome (although no promises!) over on [Tumblr](https://bethagain.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> P.S. Credit to [this lovely ficlet](https://forineffablereasons.tumblr.com/post/186700681833/okay-but-now-that-the-show-is-out-where-is-my) by forineffablereasons on tumblr, which is 100% where I got the idea for Crowley drawing Aziraphale's magician mustache on for him.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) Crowley draws Aziraphale's magician mustache for him.  
2) Aziraphale fixes a hair experiment gone awry.  
3) Crowley's boots fit a little too well.  
These were the first little snippets that came to mind. Stay tuned, chapters after this are mini-fics with their own mini-plots!

What if Crowley and Aziraphale touch each other all the time? Ok we didn’t see it on screen, but consider:

Aziraphale is taking forever with his magician's mustache, getting it crooked and wiping it off and trying again. And again and again, sitting in the Bentley’s passenger seat, the rear view mirror turned his way. Finally Crowley, already dressed for ages in his white caterer’s jacket (white! the things he’ll do…), makes an impatient noise and, “Angel!” He snatches the grease pencil out of Aziraphale’s hand, grabs the angel’s chin, and quick as anything draws two perfect curlicues on Aziraphale’s upper lip. Crowley drops back into the driver’s seat, reaching up to flip the rear view mirror back into place as he does so. “You look good, angel. Let’s go.”

  


Or, you know how Crowley's always doing new things with his hair? The first time he tries that hair sculpting stuff, he shows up at the bookstore with half his hair flattened and the ends standing up all wrong. Aziraphale takes one look and sighs, "Good lord, Crowley. Sit." He runs his fingers through Crowley's hair until it's got just the right curve to frame the demon's angular face. "Now c'mon," he says, pausing to sniff at his hands--"what's that stuff made of, smells like a chemical plant--we're going to be late to the theater."

  


And. Remember (or maybe you don't, because I just made it up) when Crowley buys--well, acquires--a pair of riding boots? 

Because if he's going to have to ride a giant demonic black horse, he is going to look the part. He could materialize a pair of boots but he's passing by the bootmaker's shop and, the craftsmanship! They're tall, smoothly polished, and have this look about them, like somehow those boots are crooking a finger and saying, come here. Such a deep black they make all the other shoes look faded. 

He's happy, as much as demons can be happy, all day wearing them. Until that evening when, ready to settle in at the bookshop for a glass of wine and some philosophical chatter with a friendly angel, he can't get the boots off.

Well, he gets the right one eventually, after more difficulty than seems reasonable. He works at the left boot now, but the fit is too snug. It doesn't budge. Aziraphale, who understands shoes because he's been wearing various types of actual shoes for a couple thousand years at this point, doesn't hesitate to sit himself down at Crowley's feet. 

"Pick up your foot." He grabs the boot, hands firm around it just above the heel, and tugs. As these things usually go, a moment or two later Aziraphale's flying backward, coal-black boot in his arms and Crowley's black-stockinged foot free. 

Now Aziraphale's fingers circle Crowley's ankle and, hand-over-hand up the demon's still outstretched leg, he pulls himself back to sitting. He ends with a palm on Crowley's knee, the demon pretending to scowl as the angel rests his weight there to climb upright. 

Aziraphale steps over to the end table, pours out two glasses of something expensive and red, and hands one to Crowley. 

Then he settles, as always, in the armchair several feet away.


	2. Cinders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon stands beside an angel, in the aftermath of the Great Fire of London.
> 
> The prompt for this one was, "You've got something on your face."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Fire took out much of the City of London within the old Roman wall. It burned more than ten thousand houses, dozens of churches, most city government buildings, and St. Paul's Cathedral. It went on for 5 days while the usual fire-fighting methods failed. Residents fled as the fire neared their homes, then had to run again as it swept further across the city. It's estimated that in places, the fire reached 1,250 °C.

Crowley steps up from behind to stand beside Aziraphale on the bank of the Thames, half a mile west from the Tower of London. The angel is silent, his face blank, eyes unmoving.

Beside him, Crowley faces forward too, joining the angel in stillness.

Finally he turns his head, studies Aziraphale for a while with narrowed eyes. “Angel," he says. "You’ve got something on your face.”

It’s a stupid thing to say. Aziraphale does, indeed, have something on his face. And in his hair, and on his clothes, and dusting his shoes so they’re more grey than brown.

It’s ash. Ash and soot, black and grey and white, hours’ worth, days’ worth. It’s Thursday, the 6th of September, 1666. He’s been standing here since the fire started on Sunday, and he’s covered in what used to be London.

“Bearing witness,” Aziraphale says, still looking straight ahead. The view in front of him is of blackened timbers. There are piles of charcoal where wattle-and-daub buildings used to be. Lanes are obscured by the remnants of tall houses, high floors tumbled down to fill the streets they used to shadow.

“She sent us to bear witness,” he repeats, a slight quaver revealing the question behind it. He has never spoken that sort of question, not in all these years.

Sometimes, Crowley says it for him. Why would She do this? Why would She make you watch?

Right now doesn’t seem like the time. Crowley’s head-to-foot in ash, too, his hands blackened from helping to carry belongings, from passing buckets, from handing a coughing child down from a second-story window into a stranger’s arms as the walls burned around him.

He’s been moving through places where the air was smoke and sparks and heat. A human’s vision of Hell. Crowley hasn’t seen any other representatives though, and doesn’t expect to. There have been many opportunities here to do evil–abandon your neighbor, but take his wallet!–but Hell isn’t usually up on current events. They’re too busy tempting priests and possessing innocent teenagers.

Still, a demon can’t be too careful. He’s been staying under cover of smoke, doing what his human form will allow, keeping the miracles small and out of sight.

“She said they’ll learn from it,” Aziraphale says. Why did they have to learn this way? goes unspoken. “She said they’ll build better next time. It’s a form of something called ‘evolution.’”

“The other angels gone home?” Crowley’s tone is neutral, as if they’re just having a chat.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “We’re off duty, now that the last house has burned. Well, we’re never off duty. But we don’t have to watch anymore.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes.”

In front of them, the ashes of the city smolder.

“Nothing to be done now, I suppose,” Aziraphale says. 

“They’ll need help to rebuild. You can be here for that.”

“Rebuilding. Yes,” he agrees. It’s just a quiet statement, without his usual enthusiasm.

“You’ll help,” Crowley says. “New houses, new shops. New bakeries.”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply. He’s still gazing straight ahead, eyes fixed on the wreckage.

Crowley grumbles, “I saved a few of them. Cleared the way, got some of them out.”

At last, the angel turns to look at him. “You did?”

Now it’s Crowley who’s staring fixedly ahead. “Consider it part of our Arrangement. You’ll do me a favor sometime. It’ll all come out in the wash.”

Aziraphale seems to notice, for the first time, the ash covering his clothes. “Wash,” he says with the start of a laugh. It’s high-pitched, sounding more like hysterics than humor.

The handkerchief that’s suddenly in Crowley’s hand is bright white and spotless, the only clean thing for a mile or more.

“Come here,” he says, but it’s he who steps closer. “Told you, there’s something on your face.”

He starts at Aziraphale’s right temple, brushing away the grey powder. He scrubs gently at the soot beside the angel’s eye, the fingers of his other hand pressing against the side of his head to steady it. He folds the cloth to a new clean spot and draws it carefully down the angel’s cheek, along each side of his nose. 

He folds the cloth again, using a clean corner to trace Aziraphale’s mouth, center to corners, left side, right side, top lip and bottom.

He finishes with the angel’s chin, fingers under his jaw now, just enough pressure in the softness there to hold Aziraphale’s head still while he rubs at the last bit of black.

Crowley shakes out the handkerchief and it’s instantly bright white again. He tucks it into Aziraphale’s breast pocket, then steps back.

“Is it better?” Aziraphale asks.

“Much better,” Crowley says. 

“Better,” Aziraphale says again. He takes a deep breath, meets Crowley’s eyes. “I do feel better. They’ll need help rebuilding,” he says, as though he’s just thought of it. “Do you mind if I–” he gestures out at the ruined city, poised to take a step forward. 

“Go ahead, angel,” Crowley says. “Dinner later?”

Aziraphale’s already three steps away. “Yes, someday soon,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll find you.”


	3. Bow Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley acquires a bow tie. Aziraphale shows him how to tie it.

Crowley gets interested in things. 

When he emerges after his nap that lasted most of the 19th century, one of the new things he notices is: Aziraphale has started wearing a bow tie.

He looks at it and thinks, huh. 

Cravats, now, those have always seemed straightforward. Knot at the neck, let the rest of the lace or silk or whatever hang down across your shirt front. Since Crowley usually manifests his clothing instead of buying it, he never has learned how to tie one. For years he managed elegant-looking cravats in luxurious fabrics without ever once realizing there was an art to arranging them just so.

But these new bow ties. How do they do that? The knot in front always looks symmetrical and smooth, the bows make perfect triangles on either side. He knows it’s not simply sewn that way. He sees Aziraphale (as few beings ever do) with his tie undone and shirt collar open, on the occasional night when, long conversation taking them through to sunrise, the angel forgets to be quite so buttoned up.

What miracle of tailoring allows that scrap of fabric to be tied, untied, and tied again, and still hold that crisp shape? 

This is geometry, and maybe physics, and Crowley is _interested._

So, he buys himself a bow tie. Black silk, measured to his own neck. One has to keep one’s aesthetic. 

The salesman assumes he knows what to do with it. Crowley makes sure of that. _Well-dressed middle-aged gentleman shopping in Men’s Furnishings, of course he knows how to tie a bow tie. Don’t embarrass yourself or him by asking._

Now, in the sparsely furnished flat that isn’t home because he doesn’t live there (he doesn’t, strictly speaking, live anywhere), he studies the shape of it. The neckband is a simple strip of fabric with neat seams at the sides. The part that would make the bow is a mystery of curved shapes vaguely resembling an hourglass, but an hourglass that could only be stood on one end. The other end, closer to the neckband, bows out and then tapers in again to make an oval. 

Crowley lays the bow tie out on the dining table in his rarely-used kitchen. The table is simple, sharp-cornered, and spotless, a dark red cherry wood original from the New Lebanon Shaker workshop. (Both Aziraphale and Crowley find the Shakers interesting. Crowley, because he’s always been intrigued by humans’ penchant to take things to extremes. Aziraphale because, having witnessed all the forms of human love since Eve and Adam were [literally] making Cain in the Garden, he can’t fathom why humans would give up sensuality and call doing so a virtue. Or why Heaven, having invented the sex thing in the first place, would expect them to.)

The whole kitchen is spotless, counters and cabinets all finely made and unadorned. Except for Crowley himself, who actually is pretty much all angles, too, the bow tie is the only soft thing in the room.

He tries tying a bow. It comes out hopelessly lopsided. One side is smaller than the other, the space for the neck is far too narrow, and the crumpled loops don’t resemble triangles in the slightest.

Obviously there’s a trick to it. 

He tries again, careful to hold the fabric in the proper shape as he goes. The whole thing feels a bit stiff, like there’s something stronger in there than two layers of fabric. It doesn’t help, though. It just makes his lopsided effort look more prominently wrong.

A third try is a little better, but still nothing like the neat geometry that adorns Aziraphale’s collar.

Crowley’s book collection includes a number of instruction manuals, but they lean toward chemistry, anatomy, mechanics. He likes knowing how things are made. He likes taking things apart. (He likes putting them back together again, too, everything neatly in place and no parts left over. But don’t tell his superiors. Hell is supposed to be contributing to entropy, not making it go away.) His book collection is also carefully curated to fit on the built-in bookshelves that nestle into a single wall. Freestanding shelves would mar the clean lines of his high-ceilinged rooms.

Crowley’s bookshelves contain information on how to mix a poison, how to remove an appendix, and how to repair a combustion engine. They do not contain a single book that would tell him how to tie a bow tie. 

Nowadays, when he has a question and doesn’t know the answer, Crowley knows how to Google. (He also knows to avoid Bing, because he’s responsible for it.) But here in the early 1900s, when he has a question, he knows the answer can often be found in a place that has much different standards for curation. 

Crowley’s clothing only has pockets when he needs them. Now, he tucks the bow tie in the right-hand hip pocket of his trousers, settles a tweed cap over his hair (short, with a fashionable side part, because it’s his job to notice what humans find attractive these days), and sets off for A.Z. Fell’s bookshop.

“Angel!” Crowley pounds on the door, peering through the dusty glass. The bookshop hours are posted on the door in gilt. They have no connection with when the shop is open. “Aziraphale, it’s me!”

“It’s unlocked,” comes a voice from within.

A moment ago it wasn’t, though, and Crowley lets out an exasperated huff as he turns the doorknob. The shop is dim and pleasantly cool. The angel is nowhere in sight.

“Just going to look for something.” Crowley speaks to the room in general, figuring Aziraphale will hear him. The angel might be up on a ladder, or sitting among a stack of new acquisitions, or curled up in a chair in the back room with the new Zane Grey novel, and not wanting to leave his tea.

The bookshop is roughly organized. Biographies here, science books there, religion over here. Novels in this section, here, but also tossed carelessly on the desk near the cash register, on a coffee table in the back room, on the floor near the angel’s favorite chair. 

“Fashion,” Crowley mutters, scanning the spines of books on the nearest shelf. Do they even make books on fashion? He’s never noticed a separate section for it, so where would they be? A book about bow ties… Art? Mathematics? Spirituality?

He’s making his way slowly through the shelves when Aziraphale’s voice sounds behind him. “Can I help you?”

Crowley doesn’t turn around, but he can’t help his smile as he answers. “Oh, you provide customer service now?”

“You’re hardly a customer.” Aziraphale crowds up behind him and peers past his right shoulder. “Did you suddenly get curious about the history of the Levant during the Classical Age? You were there for most of it.”

“I was curious what they said about me.” 

“I expect many things have been said about you,” Aziraphale says cheerfully. “I’m sure they’re all impressively terrible.”

Crowley reaches into his pocket, elbow brushing against the angel’s side as he does so. Aziraphale takes a step back to see what’s in his hand. He holds out the bow tie. “I was looking for a book about this.” 

“It’s a nice tie,” says Aziraphale, confused. “Are you going someplace fancy?”

“Nah,” says Crowley. “Wouldn’t bother, if I were. Easier to just–” He indicates his clothing, all conjured out of imagination and unearthly matter, with his other hand. “Too fussy, these things.” He holds the tie out to Aziraphale, shakes it by one end. “Did you invent these? Because I swear there’s a miracle involved in this somewhere. Defies the laws of physics.”

The angel’s face lights up. “You’re asking how to tie it!”

“I’m not asking. Just thought, someone must have written it down.”

Aziraphale takes the tie from his hand. He runs it through his fingers, smoothing out wrinkles in the fine fabric. “They are wonderful inventions, aren’t they. Designed for exactly this one purpose. You wouldn’t use this for anything else in the world.”

Crowley, who has witnessed some of the darker sides of human creativity, doesn’t comment. 

“Here,” Aziraphale says, reaching up to set the tie around Crowley’s neck. “I’ll teach you. You can’t really learn it from a diagram, anyway. It’s easier if I show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. I got cheerfully scolded by a friend on Tumblr for leaving it there, so if you're wondering what happened next:
> 
> They end up in front of an antique full-length mirror in Aziraphale’s bedroom, which has a cozy bed for curling up with a book on rainy days and a comfy armchair that they’ve pulled over for Crowley to sit in. Aziraphale stands behind the chair and does the tie up for him the first time, while Crowley watches. 
> 
> Then they do it once together, Aziraphale guiding Crowley’s fingers until he shakes off the angel’s hands and growls that he can do it himself. 
> 
> So Aziraphale rests his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, ready to help if he gets stuck on the third try. He doesn’t get stuck–he’s a quick study–and Aziraphale smiles at Crowley’s reflection as he tugs the bow into perfect symmetry.
> 
> And it is a very nice tie, and it does look very good on, and so Crowley ends up materializing a jacket to match and they go out someplace nice for dinner. And then, why not, to a show. I’m not sure which one they go to, but it’s probably an Edwardian musical comedy that is very funny and very up-to-the-moment, and neither one of them gets all of the jokes but they still have a lovely time. 
> 
> They leave the theater separately, in case anyone is watching. 
> 
> But when they happen to pass on the street a few days later Crowley nods and says, “Nice tie,” and Aziraphale smiles and says, “Thank you,” and Crowley isn’t even mad at him for saying it.


	4. Oreos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley introduces Aziraphale to Oreos. But not the good ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a blog on Tumblr called [Crowley's Crimes](https://crowley-did-this.tumblr.com/), which posts things that members of fandom have decided are entirely Crowley's fault. 
> 
> Someone submitted that Crowley invented jelly donut Oreos. Which, yes, sounds like an appropriately demonic abomination.
> 
> I decided Crowley invented _all_ the crazy flavors of Oreos.

Aziraphale arrives home to the bookshop one night and finds Crowley sitting cross-legged on the floor in the back room, surrounded by brightly colored, crinkly bags all labeled with the word OREO. Some of them are open, revealing plastic trays. The plastic trays contain creme-filled biscuits standing on end, lined up in neat rows.

“You have to try these,” Crowley says, grinning up at Aziraphale just as if he hasn’t turned up unexpected (and uninvited) and made himself at home.

Aziraphale frowns down at him. “Try what?”

Crowley holds one up. It’s two pale cream-colored discs, sandwiching a pale yellow center.

“What’s it going to do to me?”

“Angel,” says Crowley, still smiling, “you wound me. Would I do anything to hurt you?”

No, thinks Aziraphale. You wouldn’t. He takes the biscuit and gives an experimental nibble. He’s immediately glad he started with one tiny bite. “What is that?”

“Go on.” Crowley waves a hand encouragingly. “Think of it like a fine wine. What’s it taste like?”

Aziraphale takes another tiny nibble. His face goes blank as he concentrates. “Household cleaner?” he says, uncertain. Then, “No. Furniture polish!”

He can’t help smiling back as Crowley’s face lights up. “Yes!” The demon holds up the package, beaming proudly over the “Lemon Oreos” logo and a photograph of a biscuit just like the one Aziraphale is now wondering how best to dispose of.

The picture, rather spuriously, also includes images of genuine lemon slices.

Aziraphale looks around, decides against getting crumbs on his coffee table, and sets the partly eaten creme-filled thing back in the tray it came from.

“Why,” he says, “are you trying to trick humans into eating furniture polish?” He stands up straighter, tries to look stern. “I’m not going to let you poison people.”

Crowley pulls another tray from its wrapper. These are chocolate-colored, with a white filling dotted with specks of bright color. “Birthday cake,” the label says.

Aziraphale hesitates.

“I promise. No poison.”

He takes a biscuit. He can’t resist, Crowley looks so pleased with himself.

He touches the filling with his tongue. Sweet, certainly, but with an overtone of… He takes a bite, rolling biscuit and filling across his tongue. “My goodness. It’s perfectly, exactly, the flavor of boxed cake mix. The cheap kind,” he adds with admiration. “A few months after the sell-by date?”

Crowley cocks his head, sitting there among the piles of packages, his eyes sharp with new interest. “Got it in one,” he says. “And how exactly did you know that?”

Angels don’t blush (unless it’s on purpose) but Aziraphale’s eyes shift away. “I’ve tried my hand at baking now and then.”

“With _cake mix?_”

“Well, sometimes you want something easy.”

“With _stale_ cake mix?”

Angels absolutely do pout, or at least Aziraphale does. “It was the only thing in the cupboard.” He’s been looking somewhere off Crowley’s left shoulder, but eventually his gaze drifts back. “Even angels have rough days sometimes.”

There’s a silence after he says that, while Crowley looks back at him. It’s a contemplative look, yellow eyes a little narrowed, mouth a line with the tiniest quirk to one corner. Then he moves again, expression softening. “Come here.” He shoves a few biscuit packages aside to clear a space beside him.

Aziraphale doesn’t even pause to consider it. He steps carefully over the colorful packages and settles down beside Crowley, who immediately reaches for another one. This one has a picture of a glass jar filled with some kind of brown goo. The biscuits are blonde outside, the filling brown.

“Try,” Crowley insists. This time Aziraphale twists one carefully into two halves and uses his teeth to scrape off a bit of creme filling. Crowley watches, rapt. Aziraphale waits for the filling to dissolve on his tongue, thoughtful.

“Nutella,” he says, and Crowley looks disappointed until he adds, “Nutella having a _very bad day._”

He has to laugh as Crowley actually pumps a fist in the air, yelling “Yes!”

“This is your newest demonic invention?” It’s obvious, of course, but he knows Crowley’s going to want to talk about it.

“Aren’t they great? It’s going to be a whole thing. The company’s going to come out with new flavors every season for years. Dozens of them!” Crowley reaches past Aziraphale, resting an elbow on the angel’s thigh as he grabs another package. He sits back up, one long finger tracing the image of a can of cherry cola. “Each one worse than the last.”

“They can’t all be that awful, can they?”

“No,” Crowley admits. “Every now and then there’ll be a good one. Just often enough to keep people coming back.” He sits there among his creations, smiling proudly at each one, apparently unaware that he’s still crowding into Aziraphale’s space, black-clad thigh against cream-colored trousers. “Oh!” he says, grabbing up a teal and blue package with, yes, teal is the best way to describe the frightening color of the biscuit filling.

Food should not be _teal._

Aziraphale accepts the biscuit, tastes it carefully. He meets Crowley’s eager eye. “Sugar,” he says, teasing. “Chocolate.” Crowley waits. “_Toothpaste,_” Aziraphale admits, and Crowley actually claps his hands.

The angel sighs to himself. _There goes my quiet evening._

But the truth is, this is fun too. “All right,” he says. “What’s the next one?


End file.
